Soulless
by public static void
Summary: Bill Weasley loved power and that led him to the path of a curse-breaker. The same fascination with power left him trapped inside a book.


**AN:** I should get used to post more of these things. Well, this is for the **Your Journey Begins Competition** at the **Golden Snitch** forum. My character is Bill Weasley, and Cara's favorite character is Tom Riddle Jr.

Prompts used: orange, the Burrow, and the following lyrics of the song Problem by Ariana Grande [I'm thinkin' I love the thought of you / More than I love your presence / And the best thing now / Is probably for you to exit / I let you go / Let you back].

* * *

o-o-o

The book laid on the ground strangely devoid of any dust from the road; its pages were unmoving in spite of the light wind starting to calm down. No animal paced around it, and even the most impish chickens remained away from the otherworldly book.

When Bill bent down to pick it up from the ground, his magic reacted at the storm of energy on the book. A diary, it appeared to be because of its blank pages with a slight yellow tint at the edges. The leather bound cover was worn, with a scratch here and there, but the damage was faked; the scratches were a statement more than anything else, but Bill didn't know what it was.

He entered the house, marveling at the sound of silence prevailing. He loved his childhood home and all the memories it held, but he always valued silence more than any of his brothers, except perhaps Percy. Today, the silence was overwhelmingly heavy with magic.

Frowning, Bill took out his wand and said a spell only someone well-versed in curse-breaking could know. His mentor had taught him many things before his retirement, and even if Bill had barely three years in the business he could perfectly cast many of the spells other wizards failed to learn even with years of experience. Right then, the intent of his spell made the foreign magic glow gold, opaquing the rest of the colors swirling around the house.

Bill wondered why the gold was everywhere, from a particularly rickety chair in the kitchen to the orchard, to the rooms upstairs. Was it the magic of his younger siblings? Bill hadn't spent much time with them, so it would be normal if the twins, or Ron —or even Ginny— had magic that powerful. Then he counted the threads of magic and found there were eight, and unless Charlie had been home without telling him —it wouldn't be the first time— then someone else had been here.

Bill counted the colors: there was his father's brown magic, the orange of his mother —it drowned the kitchen, making a smile appear on Bill's lips—, and the various shades of red of his siblings. There were also two different blues and one, the darker, was tinted with golden and black. Bill knew one of those blue shades was Ron: he was the most different out of the six brothers, so the other blue must be his friend Harry Potter. It was fitting, but to think a boy of barely twelve years old had already such powerful magic was strange.

The stranger thing was how the black in Potter's magic trace was flowing into and from the diary. A connection, maybe, and a dangerous one. Bill searched for something in the book, a note or a doodle that would give him a clue as to what was going on. He only found a name.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," he said to himself, noticing how the diary flared the black-colored magic when it heard the name of its owner. Bill frowned and canceled the spell. There was something about the diary and Harry Potter that Bill had to solve and for the love of Merlin he prayed it didn't involve Voldemort.

When his parents got home his mother mumbled around about closed platforms, illegal charms on Muggle objects, and boys without an ounce of common sense. His visit was half spent laughing at what Ron and his friend did and half trying to get his mother to worry a little less about them.

"They're young," Bill told her. "Everything is a good idea for boys their age."

Dad agreed with Bill before excusing himself and going to work. Mum sighed sadly.

"It will be lonely here," she said, biting an apple Bill brought from the orchard while she cooked lunch for them.

"I'll try to come by more often."

His words were true: he planned to visit the Burrow more than ever, not only to keep her mother company. Besides, it would mean he got to meet the powerful Potter boy, because if Bill liked something was the taste of powerful magic.

* * *

He went home after work that day without bothering to make an excuse for not going out with his boyfriend, already knowing their relationship would not progress as the other wizard wanted and it didn't have to do with the pretty girl working for the Apothecary across the street.

When he finally sat on his bed with a cup of coffee and a bottle of Fire-whiskey near enough, Bill opened the diary he had been itching to touch all day. Something called him to it, an unnatural sensation he knew quite well from his work in curse-breaking; he would even be going to Egypt to deal with a pyramid full of objects like this in the near future.

The diary was a bit different from what he had seen until now. It called to him like a siren singing for sailors. The diary wanted him to stray from his world to lose himself in its pages, Bill was sure, but still could not find the will to close it and break the spells woven into it. That was the power of a Horcrux, and until now Bill had only heard about them.

Bill was not magically weak, but whoever was Tom Marvolo Riddle —and Bill was sure it was Voldemort— had a will of ice. Psychopaths and sociopaths often did.

He stared at the empty diary for minutes, taking sips of his black coffee and the occasional gulp from the whiskey bottle. The black-colored energy swirled beneath his fingertips, sending jolts of strange pleasure through him. It vibrated with energy, powerful and baiting, willing Bill to write his soul on its pages, to feed the Horcrux within and shrivel inside to let it overtake him.

He finally did.

The black ink stained the blank pages quite lovingly, leaving Bill feeling slightly poetic with all the emotions —fear, thrill, excitement. It reminded him of the first time he used his wand, watching the golden and indigo sparks of his magic, but with more depth and intensity.

The words he wrote, a simple _I am William Weasley_ , disappeared from the page as if the ink were absorbed into it. Bill waited and soon saw the same ink come back to form more words in a different calligraphy.

 _Hello, William. Do we know each other?_

Bill exhaled loudly, his mouth hanging open for a second. The words already had a relaxing effect on him. He could feel the diary's magic trying to get a hold of his, tenderly reaching out of the pages to touch his fingers and his own, quiet magic. Bill could fight it, if he wanted to. He was strong enough, powerful enough to do it, but he didn't want to.

 _I don't know you, Tom Riddle, but I know Lord Voldemort._

The Horcrux pulsed and Bill smiled nervously. It was a Horcrux. There was no doubt of it after that —so human— reaction. The soul within the diary hesitated before writing again.

 _Am I powerful? Important?_

The anticipation was palpable as the magic pulsed in the steady rhythm of a heartbeat, though it was as unnatural as Fiendfyre and as cold as the waters of Tinworth's coast.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Bill smirked before writing again.

 _Is magic important?_

His words evoked another flare of magic and that caused a shiver to run through Bill's body. Tom Riddle was already affecting him, though they hadn't exchanged more than three sentences each.

 _Do you serve me?_

Bill could taste the giddiness coming from the diary and he licked his lips, fidgeting on his bed to seat more comfortably. It was odd to think of Voldemort, the Dark Wizard who committed dozens of horrible crimes, as an excited wizard. If Bill was right, this Horcrux was made when Voldemort was younger than twenty because his magic was easily excitable and it responded almost automatically, similar to the accidental magic of a child but more controlled and still somewhat tuned to emotions.

 _Would you like to come with me?_

The offer surprised Bill, who only stared at the black ink which was loaded with dark, fascinating magic. It couldn't hurt if he agreed,but he couldn't know where he would be going, or if instead the soul would be coming. Horcruxes were studied but never detailed, and Bill had frankly been lucky to found one. Or unlucky, if common opinion mattered more than academical research. The invitation from Voldemort tempted him, more because he wanted to see him and feel the power everyone claimed he had.

If Bill was honest with himself, it had nothing to do with curse-breaking and more to do with his selfish wish to meet a Dark Lord, no matter how young he was when he made the Horcrux.

But would he be in control?

 _Are you afraid of me, William?_

When Bill saw the words he traced the elegant, if somewhat boyish, calligraphy. The ink smeared his fingers and he, in turn, stained the page. The ink on his fingers was absorbed into his skin without him being able to do anything about it. It didn't cause him to feel different, so maybe it would be safe to go.

Besides, the words of Tom Marvolo Riddle drew out something from him.

"I am _so_ not excited to meet Voldemort!" he said before shaking his head. He had to be losing his mind to agree to this madness!

 _I don't fear you, Tom Riddle. How can I see you?_

The magic from the diary vibrated with laughter. Bill realized in that moment how deeply linked the soul of a wizard was to emotions and wondered how everything could work in that way. How could a human soul, encased in leather and paper, laugh? How could it still be human if Tom Riddle had to murder in cold blood to tear it from himself?

He had no more time to ask himself questions he might never answer, at least not if he didn't come back from where he was going. White and silver light enveloped the diary and his hands, and he lost his breath when a tugging sensation threw him forward into the diary.

The sensation of being immersed in a book was infinite. There were no other words to describe it but possibilities, and Bill wondered if it was because a blank page could become endless stories or because being there, so close to Voldemort —to Tom Riddle— awakened a collection of paths he could take.

"William?"

The voice froze him. It was a rich sound even if it came from the vocal cords of a young wizard, and it voiced elation and happiness. Those emotions were not what Bill expected of the young version of the Dark Lord, but once he heard them he could not doubt them or him.

"Tom Riddle?"

He scrunched his nose, button-like and human-looking.

"You don't like your name?" Bill asked, not approaching but not defensive. He could take on a young Voldemort even if the boy had delved enough into the Dark Arts to create a Horcrux.

"It's a common name."

"William is also common," Bill responded with a shrug. "There was a William Selwyn and a William Nott in my class."

Tom Riddle was attentive as Bill spoke, but the vacant look in his eyes betrayed the indifference he felt.

"But you don't mean that kind of common, do you?" Bill asked, taking a hesitant step towards Tom Riddle.

The boy who would become the nightmare of Britain winced and stepped back, making Bill laugh. It was so strange to meet him, and stranger even to know he was ashamed of his name and —from what Bill could deduce— scared of people rejecting him.

"You mean common as in Muggle, don't you, Voldemort?"

Tom Riddle looked up and he suddenly had a malevolous glint in his eyes.

"I became the Dark Lord? I am great, then. Greater than Grindelwald, and greater than the perfect Albus Dumbledore."

Bill frowned. He could tell the boy wanted to be recognition. Well, he certainly achieved that.

"You are not my servant," Tom Riddle said, circling Bill and searching for something on his body. So he already had the idea of a Dark Mark. "Why are you here, then? Tell me."

The order came with a slight charm, Bill knew. He felt his mind go numb for a second before he caught himself. For a piece of soul, Tom Riddle had too much power. Maybe he did the spell wrong and parting with so much from his soul, from his magic, led him to madness. The boy in front of him didn't seem mad, only psychopathic, after all.

As such, Bill didn't think it would be wrong to answer honestly. Besides, nobody would ever find out.

"Because you fascinate me," he confesses, raising his voice only enough to let Tom Riddle know he's being honest. "How could a single wizard kill so many other powerful witches and wizards? I've tracked your story and I know you had already murdered any other competitor for the title of Dark Lord by the time you were thirty. As far as I can tell, you were ready to rule and then went mad. Voldemort is not great. He is dead."

Tom Riddle snorted and then laughed. "I can't be killed, William. I am immortal."

"Creating a Horcrux doesn't mean you can't die. It means you will never die, but it could be years before you find the way to be a person again, and always at the cost of your sanity."

Bill grinned, feeling the fear on the boy. He walked towards him until he could grab his left wrist and his right forearm.

"Listen, boy," Bill said with a hint of malice. This wizard was the one who killed his uncles and so many other people, and Bill couldn't feel guilt over manhandling him. "As fascinating as you might be, you will never win. You lack something important for that."

It was Tom Riddle's turn to grin, and this times his eyes gained a red tint that made Bill let go of his wrist.

"This time I won, William. Your body is alone without a soul, and I will get there before you can."

Bill paled. "No!" he exclaimed and closed his eyes, willing his magic to take him out of the Horcrux. He opened them and was in the same grey place.

Black words appeared in the air before him, written in the same elegant calligraphy.

 _Farewell, William._


End file.
